“Very good,” said Father Yakov, laying his open hand on Kunin’s sermons which were lying on the table.
“I will take them.”
After standing a little, hesitating and still wrapping his cassock round him, he suddenly gave up the effort to smile and lifted his head resolutely.
“Pavel Mihailovitch,” he said, evidently trying to speak loudly and distinctly.
“What can I do for you?”
“I have heard that you . . . er . . . have dismissed your secretary, and . . . and are looking for a new one . . . .”
“Yes, I am. . . .
Why, have you someone to recommend?”
“I . . . er . . . you see . . . I . . .
Could you not give the post to me?”
“Why, are you giving up the Church?” said Kunin in amazement.
“No, no,” Father Yakov brought out quickly, for some reason turning pale and trembling all over.
“God forbid!
If you feel doubtful, then never mind, never mind.
You see, I could do the work between whiles, . . so as to increase my income. . . .
Never mind, don’t disturb yourself!”
“H’m! . . . your income. . . .
But you know, I only pay my secretary twenty roubles a month.”
“Good heavens! I would take ten,” whispered Father Yakov, looking about him.
“Ten would be enough!
You . . . you are astonished, and everyone is astonished.
The greedy priest, the grasping priest, what does he do with his money?
I feel myself I am greedy, . . . and I blame myself, I condemn myself. . . . I am ashamed to look people in the face. . . .
I tell you on my conscience, Pavel Mihailovitch. . . . I call the God of truth to witness . . . .”
Father Yakov took breath and went on:
“On the way here I prepared a regular confession to make you, but . . . I’ve forgotten it all; I cannot find a word now.
I get a hundred and fifty roubles a year from my parish, and everyone wonders what I do with the money. . . .
But I’ll explain it all truly. . . .
I pay forty roubles a year to the clerical school for my brother Pyotr.
He has everything found there, except that I have to provide pens and paper.”
“Oh, I believe you; I believe you!
But what’s the object of all this?” said Kunin, with a wave of the hand, feeling terribly oppressed by this outburst of confidence on the part of his visitor, and not knowing how to get away from the tearful gleam in his eyes.
“Then I have not yet paid up all that I owe to the consistory for my place here.
They charged me two hundred roubles for the living, and I was to pay ten roubles a month. . . .
You can judge what is left!
And, besides, I must allow Father Avraamy at least three roubles a month.”
“What Father Avraamy?”
“Father Avraamy who was priest at Sinkino before I came.
He was deprived of the living on account of . . . his failing, but you know, he is still living at Sinkino!
He has nowhere to go.
There is no one to keep him.
Though he is old, he must have a corner, and food and clothing—I can’t let him go begging on the roads in his position!
It would be on my conscience if anything happened!
It would be my fault!
He is . . . in debt all round; but, you see, I am to blame for not paying for him.”
Father Yakov started up from his seat and, looking frantically at the floor, strode up and down the room.
“My God, my God!” he muttered, raising his hands and dropping them again.
“Lord, save us and have mercy upon us!
Why did you take such a calling on yourself if you have so little faith and no strength?
There is no end to my despair!